No Answer
by xephwrites
Summary: Dean really needs to talk to his brother, but he's not answering. Gen, preseries, OC death. Written for nong pradu's birthday meme.


Dean's eyes were watering from the smoke billowing from the pyre. Yes, it was the smoke. Dean had stood vigil for hunters before, but this time was different. This time, Dad or other hunters were not there. It was just him. He built the pyre, carefully removed personal effects for the family, salted the body and lit the kindling.

He had called Gregor's father, letting him know that a vampire in the nest the two of them were clearing out had gotten the drop on him. He asked if Yosif would come out for the burning. Yosif said that he would be by in the morning to collect his son's car, gear and anything else he had with him. Dean understood he couldn't bear the thought of burning his only son.

They met by chance, hunter's luck, so to speak. Turns out that they were both in the same town in the middle of nowhere, investigating the same vampire nest. Two hunters against a bunch of vampires are better than one, so they worked together. It just so happened they had a hell of a lot more than just hunting in common.

They had both just turned twenty four. They both lost their mothers while little, but old enough to remember them. Their fathers tossed them into the world of hunting before they were too old to question otherwise. They both drove their fathers hand me down classic cars. They both loved whiskey, women and Whitesnake. This man, this hunter, was his twin in so many ways, except they looked nothing alike.

Hunters die all the time. It's an occupational hazard. But Dean had never seen one so young go. But he knows that's not why he's sitting in the backseat of the Impala, staring at the rising sun. Dean saw too much of himself in the hunter who has now been properly salted, burned and blessed. And the realization hit him like a truck.

Dean Winchester will die someday.

The thought pings around in his head as the sun crests the tree line. And he hates the panicked, crushing feeling he has in his chest and stomach. He wants to scream, cry, vomit and punch something all at the same time. He digs through Gregor's duffel and pulls out a pack of cigarettes he knows is in there. He steps out of the car and lights it. He doesn't smoke, but at this moment it doesn't matter. He shoves the rest of the pack in his jacket and takes another drag. He would not think about death. He would not panic about the possibility that there will be no afterlife for him.

He heard the rumble of an approaching tow truck. He stepped on the cigarette he just threw to the ground and opened the door to the Impala. He grabbed the duffel from the back seat and walked towards the blue 1969 Camero.

The tow truck came into view, and Dean noticed that "Singer Salvage" was painted on the side. Bobby must know everyone in the fucking USA. But Bobby was not in the truck. A much older version of Gregor stepped out, nodding solemnly. Dean went to help Yosif hook up the car, but the older hunter held his hand up. Dean stepped back and let the man work.

After the car was hooked to the tow truck, Dean stepped forward with the duffel. He held it out to the older hunter, who took it with a nod. Dean held out his hand, not making eye contact. Yosif shook it briefly before getting back into the truck. Dean didn't blame the man for not talking. Hell, what do you say to a man who just lost his son that doesn't sound hollow or forced? Dean sat on the hood of his car and lit another cigarette.

The crushing feeling in his chest came back, accompanied by a cold sweat and shaking. This time, he couldn't keep the thoughts out of his head. He couldn't help but think that everything he's done will end in a flash. He'd be leaving his father and brother behind. Never hold a gun, never drink a beer, and never kiss a woman ever again. He'd be alive, then nothing.

Fuck, he really needed to talk to someone right now. Shaking, he flipped his phone open. The first contact that caught his eye was Dad. But he knew how that conversation would go. Dad would tell him that he has nothing to worry about, that he's too young to think like that. And Dean would bottle everything up, say "yes, sir", and that would be it.

Sammy. Sammy would understand. Sammy would listen. And he hadn't talked to him in a few weeks. He hit the talk button and waited. The line rang several times before the answering service clicked over.

"Hey, it's Sam. I'm probably doing something more important right now, like sleeping or something. Leave me a message." Dean clicked the phone shut, not trusting himself to talk right now. He lit another cigarette.

He dialed Sam's number after every cigarette he smoked. He lit one every time he got Sam's answering machine.

It was around noon when he finished the pack. Nausea washed over him because of the cigarettes and nerves. The trembling came back. He didn't understand it. He's faced death before. Every hunt, he takes that gamble. Why is it only affecting him now?

His phone rang in his hand. He flicked it open and answered "Sammy?"

"Dean?" His little brother croaked. "Sorry, man. I'm in a bit of rough shape."

"Really?" Dean swallowed hard. "What happened?"

"Was horsing around with the guys, tore a muscle in my shoulder." Sam sighed. "Stupid, I know. What's up with you? You called like twenty times."

"Nothing," Dean said, shoving his own panic down. "Just worried about you."

"You sure?" Dean could hear the disbelief in his brother's voice.

"Yeah, Sammy. As long as you're good, I'm good."


End file.
